17: Wildcats
by Math Girl
Summary: Some backstory, from Virgil's point of view, with football, the twins, and a very large bear. Alternate universe, taking place before 'Misunderstanding'.
1. Chapter 1

_Again, just an alternate-universe view of the past, with some time flow changes occasioned by TB5's activities in 'There Goes the Neighborhood'._

**Wildcats**

1

They stood for awhile after the tail lights faded, when engine growl and gravel crunch had vanished into big, dark, ear-stretching quiet. But the blue car didn't come back.

They'd been dropped off like this before, left to rough it with instructions to lie low (_"Don't wander far, now. Hear?"_) until she ditched her latest loser, got herself a job and some money, and came back for them. Always the same. They were used to it, by then.

They watched each other's backs, survived as best they could, and whenever she came back, they all three moved on together. Next town, next man, next disaster. That was life.

Not that they didn't wonder.

The younger would look in at lighted windows, sometimes, watching the warm, clean people at their mysterious doings, and ask,

"Think they're happy?"

A meaningless question to the older, who'd shrug,

"They got food, don't they?"

This time, it was an unpaved, private ranch road. They were kind of fuzzy on where, though. They'd fallen asleep in the back of the car, amid their boxed and bagged possessions, and had lost track of the route. But a ranch would have a house and barn, somewhere, and that meant a water hose, sweet feed, and warm hay to curl up in, if nothing else. Plus, they still had the bag of Cheetos and 2-liter soda she'd provided, to tide them over. Could've been worse.

"C' mon," the older grumped, hopping from foot to foot. "Won't get no closer to shelter just standing here."

But they waited over an hour just the same, thinking, what if, maybe, just this once... she changed her mind?

The moon was setting, cold and thin and heartless, by the time they gave up, and started walking.

_Wyoming; the Tracy spread-_

It didn't take Virgil Tracy long to figure out that he really didn't much care for football. Trouble was, most everyone else _did._ When he mentioned, just to make small talk, that he _might _try out for the team, you'd have thought he'd struck gold, invented the wheel, and painted the Sistine Chapel, all rolled into one (scratch that last one; nobody cared about an old painting).

Forks paused, hovering between plates and faces, like dragon flies on the river. Conversation ended, and chewing ceased.

Grandma, Scott, even _John_ (normally sunk so deep in the book on his lap or the thoughts in his head that he barely noticed the family) looked over. And Grandad?

The old man sat up a little straighter in his chair, set down his untouched fork-load, and smiled.

"Gonna play for the Wildcats, huh?"

Back in Spirit, Kansas, Grant Tracy had played on the local high school team, the Mustangs. Been good at it, too, and still loved the game.

"Offense, or defense?"

"Uh..., running back," something made him say. His grandfather's old position. The big rancher nodded, and the look in his blue eyes... Well, there was no way that Virgil could back down, now. And no way he could let himself fail, either.

Grandma's lips were pursed so tight, they seemed about to disappear, and her big, dark eyes were snapping. So..., okay; maybe he wasn't ideal athletic material. Yet. But, that's what a guy had brothers for, right?

As Grandma cleared the supper dishes and served up warm apple cobbler (John got one of his few mixed-flavor indulgences, a frosted cinnamon roll), Virgil looked at Scott. His oldest brother nodded in the direction of the cottonwood circle and mouthed:

'_Conference'._

Not immediately, of course. There were chores to do, and animals to be fed and settled for the night.

Scott's particular business was the perimeter. With a rifle and all-terrain vehicle, he'd check the gates and fences that enclosed the near paddocks, house and outbuildings. Sometimes, he went with Grandad, but usually by himself. At sixteen years old, Scott was almost a man, now, able to shoulder alone a man's work.

John saw to the family horses; pitching hay, scooping feed, filling water pails, curry combing, and the like. The hired men were responsible for their own mounts, but John kept an eye on those, as well.

It was funny; from the blank, bored look on his narrow face (Virgil had captured the expression _exactly_, in the sketchbook Grandma bought him) you'd have thought John hated the job. The horses knew better, though.

They'd whicker softly, snuff and lip at his blond hair, and butt him playfully with their big, hard heads. Their long tails switched lazily about, ears swiveling to follow the sound of his voice as John explained something pointlessly weird, like neutron stars, or negative pressure. Their heads would come up, dripping cracked corn and blowing hay breath, if he varied their routine any, or a dog got in. (Virgil had drawn _that _scene, too; Posy and John turning their heads at the exact same instant to stare at one of Grandad's eager hounds. It was a funny picture, no matter what John said.)

The dogs were Virgil's job. He kept them fed and watered, put them in their kennel at night, settled arguments, punished evil-doers, and rounded up escapees. Sometimes doled out medication, too, which wasn't much fun. Pixie tended to bite, and so did Max.

Then, there were the fat, black-and-white pigs to deal with. These were every bit as demanding as the dogs, but a good deal larger and smarter. Virgil was firmly convinced that they plotted nightly break outs.

Like Scott and John, he usually carried a weapon. He didn't _think _there 'd be a bear this close to the house, but you couldn't be too careful. Grizzlies sometimes developed a taste for livestock, and Tracys.

Huge, near-sighted and hungry, not troubled by much besides llamas and pepper spray, a grizzly bear was something you _never _left out of your figuring. Not if you wanted to live.

...Which got him to thinking about football, again, and wondering whether pepper spray worked on defensive linemen. When the chores were done, the boys gathered away from the house, at the circle of cottonwood trees that had been their meeting place for years.

It was a chilly evening in mid-August. The air smelled damp and leaden with possible snow. Bulging low above mountain, sage and ranch house, the rippled sky appeared pregnant.

Virgil turned up his jacket collar, stuck his hands in the deep, woolen pockets, and hurried. The music in his head, at the moment, was _'Ride of the Valkyrie'_ (it was _that _kind of weather)

The ring of trees enclosed a spring which never quite froze over. It got cold enough out there to split rock, but a chuckle of sharp, clear water always seeped through, somehow. There were marks scratched onto the stones surrounding the spring, some made by the boys, others scribed long before, with Bowie knife or flint blade.

The spring itself wasn't noisy, precisely, but it never stopped talking; bubbling forth with a confidential whisper, then snaking away past rocks and deep-piled yellow leaves. Following it (if he had nothing better to do, which wasn't often), Virgil would end up at the south cow pond, three and seven-eighths miles away.

The circle consisted of seven trees, with gnarled grey bark and quivering pale leaves. Yellow in the daytime, they looked almost silver, now. They were old trees, and big, casting a broad, spreading canopy as golden as Lorien's.

Scott was already there, looking impatient and wind-chapped. Also inside the ring of trees... well, boys have forts, and decorate them like bower birds. If any of the three found something interesting, it generally wound up at the fort. A war-surplus fighter canopy, chewed-up pronghorn skull, a rock shaped like Grandma's head... Plus, there was the latest 'swimsuit issue', some clock parts, and a set of old hubcaps that John seemed to think he could do something with. A cooler, too, filled with whatever was on sale at the Wal-mart in Burlington. Dr. Pepper, this time.

Virgil fetched himself a can, then one apiece for Scott and John. Sheer bribery. Dr. Pepper wasn't anyone's favorite flavor, but sugar, caffeine and carbonation were _always_ welcome.

Scott shifted restlessly about, but didn't say much till John drifted in, smelling of horses and motor oil. He was carrying something, which he flipped at Virgil's chest before folding himself up on a fallen trunk, like one of those long, jointed measuring sticks.

"Thanks, John," Virgil said, examining the old _'Mustangs' _play book he'd just been given. Grandad's, apparently. In return, Virgil tossed his brother a soda, or tried to. Missed by a good 3.24 feet, actually, striking Scott on the right shoulder, but without much force.

Muttering something about,

"Serious work to do...," John fished another drink out of the cooler and went back to sitting the way he usually did; hunched over with his arms wrapped close, like he had a stomachache, or something.

Virgil dropped toward his own accustomed seat on a nailed-up board, so busy leafing through the play book that he missed both the chair, and Scott's expression. Virgil's oldest brother shook his dark head, taking yet a third seat. There was a place left open between them, of course; just in case one of those _"how 'bout ifs..." _ever came true.

Both of his brothers had violet-blue eyes, but they weren't at all soft; more like the grim state flower of some flat, no-nonsense region like Iowa, where color was barely tolerated. Now, for some reason, the music Virgil heard in his head was _'Sloop John B.'._

"You," Scott began, incredulously, "want to play _football_."

His tone of voice suggested that _John _had a better chance of making the team, and that was saying something. Setting down the soda, John shook the long hair from his face.

"There's always the swim team," he hinted carefully, apparently thinking that strength and coordination were less important, in the water. But Virgil was pleased to be stubborn. He could do it. _Really._

"Nope. Football." And he took a giant swig of Dr. Pepper as punctuation.

"Well...," Scott sighed, already making plans, as he ran a hand through his short, dark hair. "We'll need to work on strength training, then."

"Coordination, too." John muttered. Though he never exerted himself if he could help it (or unless someone was paying him), Virgil's second brother was actually rather dexterous. There, John differed from the younger Tracy, who, while falling, would have had to stop and ask directions.

"How long till tryouts?" Scott enquired. "A month?"

"Three weeks," Virgil admitted, trying to sound strong and coordinated.

Popping the top on his third can of soda (he'd drunk the one Virgil hit him with), Scott mused,

"That doesn't give us much time. We'll have to work quick. Next time, Virge, _please... _Talk this kind of stuff over with us, first. I'm supposed to start studying for my SATs, and John...,"

He trailed off, gazing at their pale, quiet brother, who was looking toward the stables. There was a small, golden leaf on John's bowed shoulder.

"John...?"

The blond shrugged, and the leaf spun silently away. Between thought and speech came the dark, arm in arm with cold.

"The horses," he reported quietly, "are acting funny, tonight. Almost like...," John didn't complete the thought. Aloud, at least. If he had, they might have figured things out a little sooner. "...I don't know."

_After all, the dogs were quiet._

Scott waited a bit, then resumed talking, deciding that John would explain when he was good and ready, or not at all, but wouldn't be pushed, regardless.

"Okay, then. We start tomorrow. I'll see about setting up a chinning bar. John, you get five or six tires to practice footwork with, and we'll both throw. Everyone in agreement?"

Scott's blue eyes swept his brother's faces, and the empty seat. John and Virgil nodded, for themselves, and for Gordon.

"Right. So, that's settled. Let's get back inside, then, before..."

Too late. Grandma's sharp yell split the night like violet lightning.

"_Boys! Scott...! Teddy...! John...!"_

Time to go home.

_Shortly thereafter:_

John somehow arranged for Virgil to use the varsity weight room. Through Kenneth Flowers, probably. A defensive end himself, and son of the school guidance counselor, Ken was just about the only real friend his brother had, outside the family. Nice guy, and all, but throw him in a pond, and you could skim 'ugly' for weeks.

The big, windowless weight room was about the nicest thing in the school; clean and modern, with the Wildcats' snarling mascot painted on one wall, aggressive slogans on all the others, and a giant red paw print on the floor.

That first morning, before class, Virgil stood at the double doors and looked around, awed. There were white, red-cushioned machines everywhere (17, to be exact), the sort that turned pain into muscle.

Stepping in a little further, he noticed that it smelled funny in there; sweaty and desperate, like too many hard-luck seasons. The few guys using the machines at that hour looked Virgil over, gave him a brief nod or two, and kept right on lifting to the rhythm of their head phones, and the clash and thunder of metal.

At random, Virgil selected a bench, loaded too many weights on the bar, and got started. And that, more or less, was his entrance to the world of Ace bandages, liniment, shoulder pads and cortisone shots. For years to come, Friday evenings would glow with bright lights and cheering crowds..., or throb with pain and long, silent bus rides.

Believing that he really wanted this, Scott and John did their level best, and got their little brother on the team. Scott worked him relentlessly; push-ups, chin-ups and crunches, hour after hour, until he was almost too sore and shaky to lift a fork, but he could stand an opponent up and knock him over, every time.

John threw things at him (while he ran the rings, usually) until Virgil learned to catch on the fly, without thinking, or slowing down.

So much for the physical part. The mental portion... what Coach Fredericks and Grandad called 'intangibles' ... came harder. To put it plainly, neither his heart nor his head were in the game. Not really. He faked it well, though, fooling a great many people for a very long time, until it no longer mattered.


	2. Chapter 2

2

There came a day when John was out too late on a job with Ken to see to his chores. Football practice had run long and exhausting that evening, and Virgil was desperately weary, but the work needed doing, and the spinner stopped on 'V'.

First hogs, then hounds, then (saved to the last, in hopes that John would appear) the horses. No John, though, and all he was hearing was _'The Song of the Volga Boatmen'._

Virgil slipped into the big, wood and stone stable, already dreaming of bed, then stopped short, and stared. There, caught just so by a shaft of moonlight, was a girl. She was standing in Summer's stall, pouring water into the bay mare's bucket, plain as day; except that it was actually night time, and she was _anything_ but plain.

She had medium-length, brownish-black hair, with a few pieces of hay in it, and a high-boned, mestizo face that made him itch for a pencil or crayon. Her nose had a slightly aquiline curve to it, and her mouth was a dusky, full-lipped bloom. In the moonlit, rustling dark, her wide eyes were deep brown, and densely lashed

A little bony, the girl was about his age, Virgil thought, but her wary, serious gaze made her seem older. She looked like a doe startled at a stream, head lifted on slim neck, about to bound away.

"No, wait!" Virgil found himself saying, "Don't move, please."

Reaching into his jacket, he found a piece of folded paper and a splintery pencil stub. He didn't bother to flip on the lights, but drew the girl as she stood, perfectly beautiful, enveloped in moon-glow, and red plaid.

Once, when Summer stirred restlessly, the girl moved her hand, but Virgil at once went over and repositioned it. No problem. He worked from life, not pictures, and life had a way of meandering.

Totally absorbed, Virgil forgot to be tired, and entirely failed to notice the slim shadow that dropped to the littered ground behind him. It stole up, craning to see the paper. Another girl, almost exactly similar to the first one. A fraction taller and better-fleshed, perhaps, with her hair caught back in a thick, kinked braid.

She stared at the emerging image with her head cocked to one side, watching silently as Virgil erased and smudged, added lines and took them away. At one point, answering the question in her twin's eyes, the second girl shrugged, and made a little flip-flop gesture with one hand. But, Virgil wasn't through.

When he drew, he saw in his mind's eye, and the model's face, what he wanted to reveal on paper. Working furiously, eyes darting from girl to image, he coaxed the likeness along, several times turning the paper over and holding it up to squint at the drawing's reverse (he sometimes caught things that way, that he would otherwise have missed).

It was a moment of pure satisfaction when, _at last_, what he saw in his head matched the figure on paper, and someone looked out at him.

"Hello, Beautiful," Virgil whispered reverently. Then, holding forth the drawing, he walked over to his model, to show her.

No longer much timid, the girl squeezed out through the stall's wooden half-door, and gazed at the picture.

"That's me?" She asked quietly, speaking to Virgil for the very first time. 'Hungry', 'dirty' and 'worried' weren't in the drawing, somehow. Instead, 'pretty' was, and 'surprised'. She smiled at him.

"Yeah, kind of...," Virgil answered both question and smile. "First try, anyway. I could do better with a real canvas, and some watercolors. This...," he surprised himself, then, with a rather adult comment. "...doesn't do you justice."

And afterward, because something more needed saying, before the real questions came up,

"You got a name? Well, of _course, _you've got a name. I just don't know it yet, or... why you're here. But, I don't _care,"_ on a lifted note, with slightly raised, placating hands.

"...about the _why, _I mean. You could stay. I won't tell."

And he meant it, she could see that. They both could.

"I'm Teena. Two 'E's. We... _I'm_ here waiting, for... somebody." She betrayed neither sister, nor mother, with that.

Virgil was perplexed for a moment. Then, disappointment battled disbelief on his round-cheeked young face, and he blurted,

"You're waiting on _John? _'Cause... uh... he's gonna be awhile."

"I know," she replied, indicating the horses. "He told them about it, last night. That's why I fed them, already. I was up in the loft, listening. I've been learning so much stuff, about space. And all this time," she looked faintly outraged, "I thought they was just... _stars." _Then, more quietly, "He's very sad."

Sad? Virgil considered, momentarily startled. John? His brother had always seemed aloof, impatient and secretive. Kind of bored, maybe... but _sad?_ It was a new perspective. An unsettling one. Could you really spend your whole life with a brother, and never really get to know him?

"How 'bout Scott?" He wondered aloud. Was the oldest hiding anything?

She shrugged a little, saying,

"Oh, _him."_

Virgil grinned, and, when she gave him a questioning look, said,

"Sorry, it's just... I never mentioned Scott before, and had someone go _'Oh.., him'_, like he was a free sample, or something. Usually they gush. _Especially _the girls."

"He don't come in here, much," Teena told him, "but he's always in a hurry, when he does. Too busy to much look around, or talk to the horses."

There was a noise, from outside the stables. Slow, booted feet, scuffing tiredly along the graveled path.

Posy lifted her head, snuffed a bit, and nickered. Summer did the same. In fact, all down the row, big bodies shifted about, ears swivelled, and low horsey grumbles filled the still air. John.

Virgil tensed. Sound carried faster, in cold air... There were, probably, about ten steps left to the door, at that speed and distance. Teena began to slip off, but before she could quite dissolve into shadow, Virgil touched her grimy sleeve.

"Wait a minute, please," the boy pled, struggling for words. "You.. You know how wishes always disappear, in the morning?"

Teena nodded. They knew.

"Well, don't disappear, okay? I could bring you food, and stuff, and I won't tell. I _promise._ Just... I don't want to wake up and find out that something so pretty's gone forever. You gotta... you gotta at least stay till I finish the real picture, or until whoever you're waiting for shows up. Okay?"

For Virgil, a very long speech. The door was opening, the horses now quite animated. From the east end of the row, by the window, Traveler neighed long and ringingly, letting the world know with a stamped hoof that such dereliction and negligence would not be tolerated in _his _stable.

Unable to promise a thing, the girl slipped free, and faded away. Virgil picked up the hose and watering pail, and turned to face his newly arrived brother.

Hunched up against a biting wind, John shut out the cold, and walked inside. He wasn't even death warmed over; seeming too freezer-burned, grey and questionable for anything but the garbage can. Quickly, Virgil stuffed away the picture.

"Hey," he called out, amiably enough.

John gave him a silent nod, then flipped on the lights and went from stall to stall, beginning with the gravid Posy. Noting full feed pans and thermal buckets, sleek hides and clean straw, he said,

"Thanks, Virgil. I'll take yours, tomorrow."

"That's okay, John. It was nothing." Really.

He knew that his brother would take on both sets of chores the next day, anyhow. John _always _repaid his debts.

Leaning against one of the stalls (Posy's; being pregnant, the strawberry roan Morgan needed more room, and was closest to the main doors) John stripped off his work gloves, and got a drink from the still dribbling hose. A short, broad head and questing lips poked over the barrier and past his shoulder, so he let her have some, too. Posy dripped and sprayed more than she drank, but John, lost in sleepy thoughts, merely held the hose, and endured his shower.

Virgil immediately fetched out another piece of paper, and started drawing again. John was a good model, prone to stillness and quiet, easily rendered gesture.

But, this time, Virgil wanted to capture mood, as well as pose. He tried to look deeper, and, yes; he saw 'sad' and 'empty' and 'alone'.

Shown the picture, John said,

"I look like that?" Oddly, he sounded almost like Teena had.

"Yeah," Virgil replied. "Guess I just never noticed."

"Why now?" The question was casual, directed at Virgil, while turning back to the mare.

"I dunno... all this time, I've been counting things, and drawing them. Seeing just the outsides. Maybe, now, I want to see inside, too."

"So, get yourself an X-ray machine." John tossed it off with a shrug, as if he really didn't care. Like the horses, though, Virgil knew better.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah. Sorry. It makes you a better artist." Then, "Thanks, again, Virgil. I'm going to turn in. See you."

And that's how matters stood, until the affair of the trash, and the Grizzly bear.


	3. Chapter 3

3

True to his word, Virgil snuck food to the stables pretty nearly every night. Teena stayed, and they came to be friends. He soon discovered that she was sometimes bold and mischievous, able to skewer his family and the hired men with dead-on, sarcastic imitations, while at other times shy, sweet and gentle.

It was weird, but Teena held up a sort of mirror to his brothers, allowing Virgil to see them differently, like he saw a picture when he held it up to the light, and turned it backward. Very strange.

In the meantime, he played scrimmage games with the junior varsity Wildcats, lifted weights, and continued training, becoming stronger by the day. There were things he liked: being outdoors of a fine, sunny afternoon. Towel fights in the locker room. Cold orange Gatorade when he was wobbly and faint with thirst. Receiving the ball, pulling it in, and the sheer, balletic joy of dodging pursuit. Making a touchdown, even in scrimmage, felt good. Dog-piles did _not._

Eleven guys were plenty heavy piled on top of you, and when they were also gouging, cursing and burrowing after the ball, stabbing their fingers through your face mask, things could get unpleasant. No one else complained, though, and neither did Virgil. Coach said to run every scrimmage play like it mattered, because what they were doing, really, was practicing for _life._

Sitting on the bench one night, in the humming glare of tall field lights, dog-tired from beating himself to death against a tackling dummy, Virgil sure hoped that life would turn out to be more than pain and insect bites.

A sudden, shrill whistle-blast signaled the end of a play, and Billy Ross loped over. Grinning broadly, he downed three glasses of Gatorade from the sideline cooler, then collapsed onto the bench beside Virgil, shoulder pads rattling like hail. Like Virgil, Billy was young. _Unlike_ Virgil, he truly loved this stuff. Clearly pleased with himself, the rangy, dishwater blond crumpled up and tossed away his paper drinking cup, accidentally knocking his white practice helmet off the bench.

Lightning-quick, Billy caught it, then sat there dusting the thing, reverently admiring all the gouges and scars his skull had avoided.

"Didja see that catch, Virge?" He boasted, still grinning. "Blake drilled it right over my shoulder, and _bang! _I had it, like it was welded to my hands. Then, _whoosh!_ Right to the end zone! They couldn't touch me, man!"

His grey eyes were on fire, his voice filled with awe and laughter.

"Buddy, I am _so _psyched! I am _ready!_ I just wish our first game was tomorrow!"

"Yeah, me too." (True enough, actually; Virgil couldn't wait to have the first big test over with.) Watching doomed bugs dart in and out through the field light's halogen blaze, he added, "I'm counting the days."

"Better get out there and get some more carries, then," Billy advised warmly, getting up again. "Make sure coach sees you busting your butt, or..." And this was the absolute worst thing Billy could conceive of, "...he might not let you play."

Virgil Tracy accepted Billy's hand up, donned his helmet, worked the mouthpiece back into place, and 'got out there', a taped-up and armored, human ball-carrying machine.

_Later:_

When the house and outbuildings were dark, and he'd brought supper to the stables, Virgil talked the matter over with Teena. She was in one of her 'wild' moods again, having trouble sitting still long enough, even, to eat.

"You can call me 'Sharie' sometimes," she told him, around a mouthful of ham. Then, for the tenth time, she got up to wipe a viewing hole through the fogged window, and peered outside. He'd never asked her just who it was she waited for.

"_Sharie_... is that your middle name?"

She turned away from the window, darted back (kissing several horse muzzles on the way) and took a huge bite from a buttered roll.

"Naw, I don't got a middle name, but you can call me Sharie sometimes, okay?"

"Okay. Like, now?"

"Uh-huh. Now, Sharie's good. Other times, it's Teena."

Okay. Virgil hoped she didn't have one of those 'split personalities', but he had to admit that he'd have... well..., more than liked her, anyway.

"Y' know," he began, praying not to make a complete fool of himself, "you could be my girlfriend, if you ever got out of the stables. I mean, _most _guys don't have girlfriends who live in a stable, unless they're really into livestock..."

Sharie laughed, and threw a piece of her roll at him.

"Okay, funny guy," she responded, making her voice sound like the bleating of a sheep, "I'll be your _behhhhst_ girl!"

Bounding over, she ruffled the wavy brown hair at the top of Virgil's head, and then darted back to the window and defogged her spot. Still nothing. Whatever she waited on hadn't come. Selfishly, Virgil allowed himself to hope that it never would.

Changing the subject, but with a fine warm glow, still, because she'd sort of agreed , you know, to be his girlfriend, Virgil asked,

"What d' you think about football?"

Sharie returned to her plate, finished the peas, then started on the custard pie, folding some of the food into a napkin to 'save for later'.

"I dunno," she replied, carelessly. "Looks to me like a lot of guys beating each other silly for a dumb pointy ball that don't even roll right."

"Well," he said, laughing a little, "if it's rolling, something's gone wrong with the play, and being pointed makes it easier to throw. But... it's not the ball, really."

He badly needed to know if he was being loyal, or just a coward. Terribly serious, Virgil asked,

"If, uh... Would _you _do something you didn't really like, just to make somebody else happy?"

Sharie's head cocked to the side, and her mouth twisted slightly in a pale, pained smile.

"Sometimes, Hon," she told him, "I think that's all being a girl _is."_

Virgil blushed.

"S- sorry. I was talking about football, not..."

"Yeah, only I don't got answers to either one. I'm hiding out with the horses, Virgil. What the heck do I know?"

Yeah. Sighing, Virgil went over and sat on the hay bale beside Sharie. Draping a friendly arm across her thin shoulders, he said,

"Maybe we'll figure it out, together, huh?"


	4. Chapter 4, and 5

_Actually contains 4 & 5. Sorry!_

4

A few days later, Grant Tracy stood at the kitchen window. Giving his wife a small kiss, he straightened to watch Virgil head off across the back yard.

"I ain't never known that boy to be so taken with horses," Grant mused in his deep, quiet voice. Beside him, the slim, grey-haired woman continued wiping counter tops. "...or _you _to be so quiet, Vic."

Grandma Tracy next attacked the stove top, with cleaning spray and vigor.

"Them mountains is mighty pretty," she said, mouth thinning.

Grant pushed a big hand through his shock of silver hair.

"Always have been," he responded, a little mystified.

Victoria opened the dish-washer door with a sudden, silverware-rattling jerk.

"All I'm saying is, there's the mountains on one side, and the stable on the other, and sometimes it's good to just look at the damn mountains, Grant."

"Somethin' in there I ain't supposed to see?" He asked, trying hard to be diplomatic. She'd been the prettiest, fiercest little thing in three counties, and Grant still saw her that way. He loved her dearly, and had long since learned to listen.

Victoria didn't answer, but she didn't deny anything, either.

"Okay, Vic," her bewildered husband decided at last. "I'll keep my eyes on the mountains. But at least tell me that whatever it is 'll be solved soon, without the boy gettin' hurt."

"Teddy's fine." Her dark eyes looked gravely up past the rims of her spectacles. "He's a good boy, Grant, and he can handle a couple of wildcats."

As she'd intended, the old man was instantly soothed, thinking that Virgil was out there each day on some sort of mysterious team business. He smiled, lit up his pipe, and rubbed at the back of his wife's little neck, saying,

"It's gonna be somethin' , that first game. Bet he makes a touchdown, right off."

"If they even let him play, Grant. Mind, it's his first season. Don't you put too much pressure on the boy."

She'd realized how torn Virgil was about being on the team, just as she knew that foster care could be uncertain, and that two young girls with a penchant for wandering could get into serious trouble, fast.

But, her grandson might yet come to enjoy the game, and the girls' parents could still show up. God, in her opinion, sent his trials and his lost angels for a reason. Thus, Victoria kept quiet, content to lean against Grant's broad chest, wrapped in pipe smoke and strong arms.

5

_Next day, late afternoon:_

John drove the ATV along the ridge road, with one hand and a sliver of consciousness, racing over boulders and crevices like he had some sort of _'30 minutes or less'_ clause. Beside him, Virgil held grimly to the arm rest, field glasses and rifle, hoping the garbage bags didn't simply bounce out the back, again. Naturally, they did.

John didn't notice until Virgil got his attention with a brief elbow jab. Then, he brought the ATV around in a wild, dirt-hurling arc, giving Virgil a brand new cammo-pattern of bruises. They jerked to a halt, only just barely not running over the spilt trash bags.

His older brother idled the engine and sat there, sunk in his own thoughts, so Virgil climbed out, alone. John's eventual driving instructor was going to die in the line of duty, Virgil concluded, qualifying for immediate sainthood.

Five bags, which you could square to twenty-five, which was one quarter of a hundred, and if he had a hundred more dollars, he could buy that easel...

Virgil pitched the green plastic sacks into the rear of the shuddering vehicle, wishing that the nylon cargo net hadn't torn loose. Just for a minute, he wondered whether it would be worth it, to heave one of the bags so hard, it nailed John square in the back of the head.

But, his second brother was all right, in his way. The new football cleats Virgil had found at the door to his bedroom were almost certainly from John. They were Nikes, price tag torn off, but still nested in crumpled paper, in a very fancy box. Probably cost more than the easel would have, and it was hard to stay angry with someone who did nice things behind your back, and wouldn't take thanks for it.

Besides, 'fighting mad' was a state he found difficult to arrive at. Mere annoyance didn't count, not with his brother, or with the football team. Anyway, it was fixing to get dark soon, and they had a job to do. He could 'accidentally' throw something else, later.

"Hey, John," Virgil asked, climbing in after stowing the leaky bags (he tried leaning them the _other_ way, this time, in hopes that they'd somehow brace each other).

"...You ever get _really _mad? I mean..., like my coach says, _'hit 'em so hard, their mammas bleed,' _kindamad?"

John gave Virgil a swift, measuring glance as he gunned the engine, hurling them forward again like shot from a cannon. At first, Virgil thought he wasn't going to answer. Then, over engine rumble, undercarriage squeal and rock clatter, his brother said,

"Bad idea. If I'm that angry, something's gone wrong. Plan ahead, and you don't have to get mad."

"Yeah, but... how d' you plan ahead on the football field? Besides memorizing the plays, I mean?" And, _boy_, he had. Virgil's head was so packed with diagrams, patterns and signals, he hardly had room any more for music.

John shook his blond head.

"Sorry. The only thing I really know about football is how to switch channels, and what I've learned from helping you train."

His brother could sometimes be incredibly helpful. Other times.., now..., he was a complete dry hole. The other thing he wished they could talk about was more serious, from Virgil's standpoint, at least. He and John were now in the same grade, and it seemed likely that Virgil would pass, while, once again, his brother didn't. They weren't in the same classes, or anything, and Virgil went out of his way not to try too hard... (Scott had more than enough ambition for all three, anyhow)... but there it was. John wasn't just _likely _to fail; he seemed determined to. Virgil sighed, wishing you could tune people like you could a piano.

They reached the 'dump' before Virgil figured out how to broach the subject. Twilight had arrived, with its usual whiplash suddenness. The shadows were long, and the temperatures low. Not much time left, till dark.

The dump wasn't much. There was a chest-high fire ring of blackened stone, a clearing around that, nearly a hundred yards in diameter, and within all, a set of four rusted oil drums; where trash went to die.

Ordinarily, they'd have used the binoculars and glassed the area, first, but they were nearly out of daylight, and pretty far from the house. This once, speed trumped caution.

John must have felt bad about the six times Virgil had to pick up the scattered garbage, or else he liked setting fires. Either way, _he_ was the one who hauled the bags to the wall, whilst Virgil trailed after with the hunting rifle, a Browning Eclipse.

John got to the wall, and stopped. Didn't sling garbage, or anything. Just stood there. For a second, Virgil wondered why. Then, the smell hit him. Rank and acrid; not trash, but something that fed on trash, and meat. Bear, just inside the stone fire ring.

There's fear, and then there's atavistic _'bone club vs. teeth and claws'_, _'that thing's going to eat me' _horror. Mountainous in the ATV headlights, it stood up, and up, and up, and John's gaze went right along with it; seeing a rumbling cliff of coarse, silver-tipped hair, with five-inch claws and a dog-like head weaving and squinting atop massive, humped shoulders.

Virgil had no idea what he thought, or said, or did for the next few seconds, but John's response was quite distinct; a very quiet,

"Oh... shit."

The grizzly's ears rotated, and its phlegmy snuffling grew louder. Little, piggy eyes fastened upon the narrow white oval of John's face. One enormous paw came down, claws rattling against the stone wall as it rested a portion of its tremendous weight on the fire ring, and leaned forward for a better look.

Virgil stumbled backward, raising the high-powered rifle. His motion attracted the bear's attention for a second. It clashed its jaws together and turned slightly, salivating, huffing, and spraying John with warm spit.

Returning the favor, John dropped the bags, and brought out the only weapon he had on him, a very large can of pepper spray (they'd jokingly called it 'mega-mace', and half the time forgot to carry the stuff). Between one jolting heartbeat and the next, he'd pulled the tab, squeezed the trigger, and fired an expanding cloud of chemical bear deterrent. Of course, he was very close to his target, and got nearly as stiff a blast as the bear did.

They reacted in near perfect 'equal and opposite' manner. The grizzly, with a loud, anguished bellow, hurled itself backward and staggered off, stopping from time to time to rub its forepaws against its burning eyes, or scrape its head against the ground.

Equally blinded, John careened off in the other direction, hands at his face. Virgil dropped the rifle, grabbed the brother, slung him into the ATV, and drove like Yellowstone itself was blowing up right behind them.


	5. Chapter 6

6

_On the ridge road, racing for home:_

John was hunched over in his seat, struggling for breath and choking occasionally, but otherwise silent. He had a twisted bunch of Virgil's shirt clutched in one shaking hand. The passenger door wouldn't latch properly, so every time Virgil took a curve too fast, it flew open, and John was thrown halfway out of the vehicle. The seat straps and Virgil's quick reflexes saved him several times from a sudden, face-first acquaintance with the road.

Then, Virgil remembered the phone. Driving with his elbow (he kept a hand on John's skinny arm, as much to provide comfort, as to reel him back in), Virgil fumbled the phone out of his jacket, dropped it, and had to feel around the bottom of the ATV. Bumped the thing, but it skittered away, again. There was a quick, C-sharp tone, then a short double beep, and his grandfather's muffled voice threaded up from the bouncing, dirty floorboards.

"John...? Teddy...? That you?"

Virgil took his eyes off the road long enough to lunge for the yellow cell phone, which had come to rest against John's left shoe. He got it, hit his head getting back up again, and nearly rolled the vehicle.

Pressing the 'send' button, Virgil babbled,

"_Grandad_, it's me and John! There was a bear, and we're coming back, but John's..."

Another knife-like C-sharp cutting over his message indicated that their grandfather had mashed the 'send' key on his end. Virgil released, and stopped talking.

"_How bad?"_

"I don't know, it's dark. He got hit in the face, and I'm driving."

"_Where are you?"_

"On the ridge road, Grandad. The bear...," to Virgil's frightened, twelve-year-old eyes, every briefly-lit rock, tree and thrusting outcrop looked like a vengeful grizzly.

"Quit talking, and drive. We're coming."

Grant Tracy moved in heart-jerk fast forward, collecting pretty near everyone he could find, getting the first aid gear together, and passing out rifles. No horses. They needed something faster, that wouldn't spook.

Grant was on the phone with MedEvac, as he pulled out of the yard in his big green truck and floored the accelerator. Scott and Victoria were beside him, leaning forward in the seat, as though by sheer will power, they could make the truck move faster.

Vic said nothing at all, but her small, sinewy hand was clutched white-knuckle tight on his arm. Scott kept thumping his fist against the dashboard, rapid as a scratching hound. Behind them in the truck bed, the four hired men stood up and held on, peering over the cab roof, and snapping occasional commands at the dogs.

Not two days ago, Ross had said something about a boar, _'Big sonuvabitch from the park, 850 pounds, at least', _but Grant had dismissed it as casual, over-the-fence bullshit. Now those words, and _'he got hit in the face', _kept slamming at him. He prayed and he cursed, and he drove, straining his ears for chopper blades, and his eyes for headlights.

At last, skidding crazy-fast around a bend in the trail, twin golden pinpricks bobbed into view. The ATV, and the boys. Or, one of them, at least. As the truck roared up, head- and fog- lights blazing, all Grant could see was Virgil, big-eyed and pale in the driver's seat, with something crumpled up beside him.

He killed the engine, grabbed the medical kit, and shoved Victoria at Scott.

"Boy, you keep hold. Don't let her loose, unless I tell you to, hear?"

"Yessir," Scott whispered, trying (and trying _not)_ to see.

Grant threw himself out of the cab and ran forward, arriving at the ATV's passenger side an instant later. He yanked the door open (it wasn't latched right), and took gentle hold of the hunched and coughing boy, to straighten him.

'_No blood...'_

Grant had to work, to pull the boy's hand away from his face. John's skin was red, and his eyes clamped shut. He alternately coughed and gagged, shivering with pain, but...

"Thank _God." _

Sagging, bewildered relief gave way to ferocious joy. Bear spray. He'd somehow got hit in the face with damn bear spray. As the dogs milled frantically about, sniffing and baying, Grant nodded at the truck and called for water. Then, he swept both boys into a sudden, tight embrace. To Virgil's immense shock, the old man kissed both their foreheads.

Virgil tried to explain what had happened, while Grandma steadied John, and the senior ranch hand, Casey, poured gallon after gallon of water over the boy's face. Scott was on the phone. The other men (Shaun, Elliot and Big Floyd) posted themselves around the family, squinting into the darkness beyond their golden headlight circle, rifles at the ready. Ultimately, on a night like this, they were all just cavemen around a tiny fire, clutching their pointed sticks and wondering what was moving, out there.

"I'm sorry, Grandad, I shoulda fired, but..."

"No," his grandfather replied firmly, shaking his head. "You done the right thing, Ted. From what you say, there wasn't more 'n three or four feet between that bear n' your brother. You mighta missed entirely, hit John, or just wounded the critter. Damn thing woulda got pissed-off, and torn both of you to shreds. Instead, you held your fire, let your brother use the spray, then got yourselves back. I'd 've done the same."

Virgil was still embarrassed, though, thinking that he should have been more heroic, _'made the bear's mamma bleed'_, instead of standing there like an idiot, and losing the rifle. Grant went on,

"From now on, though, there ain't no more of these two-man trash runs. Until that sonuvabitch is caught, _I_ go with you, or Scott does. You hear me, Boy?"

"Yes, Sir."

All at once, there was a noise, hooves clipping fast and hard on the stony trail. A quick, 4-beat gallop... From the sound and pattern, the animal was big, and somewhat heavily laden. It turned out to be Traveler, Grant's big buckskin, wearing bridle and pad, but no saddle. The gelding thudded up into the light, and Teena slid off. Twice.

Everyone looked up as the girl(s) ran forward, calling Virgil's name.

"Friends of yours?" Grant enquired.

Virgil nodded, confused.

"That's my girlfriend...," he said (kind of squeaked, actually).

Grant opened his mouth, then shut it again, and shook his head. He knew when to just look at the mountains. Casey, though, had no such compunction. As the girls rushed up... (_"We followed you, fast as we could," "Pepper spray's oily, you need something soapy to take it off,")_... a mischievous grin lit the hired man's blue-eyed face.

"That's our Virge," he boasted. "So much man, he's on the football squad early, and he dates _twins."_

One of the girls swabbed at John's face with gentle, cat-like sweeps of a soapy 'wet-wipe' clearing away the blow-torch oil. The other (from the way she jigged and bounced, he guessed it was Sharie) took Virgil's hand and kissed his cheek.

"We're sorry," she told him. "We didn't mean to lie, but folks have tried to bust us up before, send Teena one way, and me the other. We're still your girlfriend, though, if that's okay."

It was; very, very much.

The girls were nineteen, when their mother came back.


End file.
